


Sladko

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-04-02 19:28:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4071862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gimli watches Legolas pay Haldir the price of a dwarf.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sladko

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Based on p450 in The Fellowship of the Ring wherein Haldir greets the party and only begrudgingly allows Gimli to stay in their trees, under Legolas’ responsibility, wherein mortals are supposed to sleep soundly. And this totally happens. (Title is from a Serebro song I was listening to)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Aragorn and Boromir have no trouble sleeping; Boromir snores like a hound. Legolas actually _hums_ as he lays himself down amidst the elf’s furs, stretching languidly out as though it isn’t freezing. Gimli curls into his little ball amidst his own blankets, trying to sleep with one eye open. The whole forest sets his teeth on edge, and a tree is no place for a dwarf to dream. The flet, they call it, only has one thin screen around barely a quarter of the brim, cutting off the wind, but the rest of the wooden platform’s sides are open, and Gimli can’t shake the feeling that one of the elves will push him off in the middle of the night. 

They stay in the other tree. This one is for their group, where, as far as Gimli can tell, Legolas and Aragorn are considered friends. Legolas sleeps between Gimli and the others, though his gentle humming has barely stopped when Gimli hears a suspicious rustling of the leaves.

He tenses. He doesn’t want to react foolishly and jump at every sway of the trees, but he takes a mental note of where his axe lies and calculates how long it would take to roll over and grab it. Before he can, Legolas murmurs a hushed, “Haldir,” by way of greeting.

“Legolas,” the stranger answers: the same voice as before. It isn’t as fair as Legolas’, but then, Gimli imagines, few are, even amongst the elves. He saw plenty in Rivendell and found most disagreeable to look at, though Legolas... Gimli has grown used to Legolas. 

Haldir isn’t that much different. Gimli listens to the feather-light sounds of him climbing up the hole in the center of the flet, his grey cloak slithering near-silently along the wood. He isn’t much different than Legolas; he has similar long, white-gold hair, though he’s stronger looking—broader, more rugged. He’s a warrior; Legolas is an art piece. Legolas whispers something in Elven, but Haldir replies slowly, “I would not mind using the common tongue. My brothers do not speak it well, and I have little chance to exercise this skill in our land.” 

In that common tongue that Gimli can understand, Legolas answers, “Then I will thank you like this. I know your hospitality is not easy to give in these times, especially when we travel with a dwarf.” Gimli would tense more if he could, but his muscles are already tightly wound. Another dwarf would know he was awake from the angry huff that leaves his nose, but elves know so little of dwarves that they probably take it for snoring. Haldir pauses in his reply.

Then he murmurs, more hushed than their other quiet words, “And how grateful are you really?” There’s a shifting movement. Legolas has a sharp intake of breath, and Gimli can’t resist creaking one eye open, just enough to peer through the darkness and the spill of his hair. 

The moonlight slithers along Haldir’s back, who has crawled over Legolas on all fours. His hands are to either side of Legolas’ slim shoulders, his knees bracketing Legolas’ trim waist, while Legolas lies still and uncovered below. His hair is splayed out amidst the furs, his arms limp at his sides, fingers curled loosely near his head. His posture is still relaxed. If it were otherwise, Gimli would have his axe ready by now. Haldir’s face is openly predatory, and he purrs just above Legolas’ pink lips, “You are very beautiful, Legolas of the Woodland Realm. But I suppose I should expect no less of an Elven prince.”

A smile graces Legolas’ mouth. His blue eyes are half lidded, watching Haldir’s more intense ones. He seems to enjoy the praise, and he muses, “None have called me that since we left Imladris.”

“Prince?” Haldir repeats, grin increasing. For whatever reason, Gimli’s distrust mounts on sight of it—the way this stranger looks at his companion irks him to the core. Legolas clearly shares no such doubt, though Haldir’s eyes rake hungrily along Legolas’ alluring body as he sighs, “I had the pleasure of viewing King Thranduil once. I did not think I would ever see another so handsome, but his son does him justice.”

Legolas murmurs, “Thank you. Though I find, thus far, that my Southern kin are just as pleasing.”

Even in just the light of the stars and moon, Gimli can see the ravenous look that flashes across Haldir’s eyes. He shifts one hand to the side of Legolas’ face, tracing idly down Legolas’ smooth cheek. Then he lowers his body, so that his legs lie flat along Legolas’, and Legolas exhales deeply, eyes fluttering down. Haldir hisses, “If that is true, perhaps you would not mind paying for the keep of your friends.”

Gimli’s blood runs cold. He wants to kick the fool of an elf off Legolas, and he’s close enough that he probably could do so without moving the rest of himself, catching Haldir by surprise. But Legolas is the first to move. He tilts his chin just enough for his lips to brush along Haldir’s, and then Haldir’s fingers have driven back into Legolas’ hair, pulling him up, and they’re pressing close. Their jaws show the movement of their tongues between their mouths, and when Gimli strains, he can hear the lewd sounds of it. Both of them have closed their eyes, and Haldir’s body has rolled into it, holding Legolas down. Legolas allows himself to be taken but does nothing else, until one hand casually lifts to stroke the back of Haldir’s hand. 

Their mouths part. Gimli’s chest has tightened and can’t seem to unwind. Looking down at the beautiful prince beneath him, Haldir whispers, “That might have been enough, if you had not brought a dwarf with you.”

Legolas asks simply, “And what is the price of a dwarf in these parts?” Even if it’s only a game, Gimli wishes they wouldn’t use him as an excuse to fuck. He wants no part of this. If he could roll over without giving away his consciousness, he would. 

Except that then, he wouldn’t see the subtle flush that rises in Legolas’ cheeks when Haldir’s hand trails down him. Haldir smoothes over Legolas’ chest, over his taut middle, and down between his legs. There, Haldir’s hand is blocked from view by his own hips, but Gimli can guess well enough where it’s gone. Legolas arches up suddenly, head tilting back and lips parting as though he wants to gasp but doesn’t dare do so with his friends about him. His eyes fall closed, his cheeks staining pinker. Haldir’s arm shifts; he’s likely kneading Legolas’ crotch, or at least squeezing Legolas’ thighs, and Legolas’ reactions are utterly tantalizing. Something stabs at Gimli, a fierce, broiling _jealousy_ that he doesn’t want to acknowledge, and he tries to tell himself that he _should_ stop this before it goes any farther. It’s blackmail, or something of the kind, though he would have to fool himself to think it—Legolas has talked only joyously of coming here, and that clearly hasn’t changed. He makes no protest to Haldir’s attentions, and he freely opens his hazy eyes halfway to purr, “That, I pay gladly.”

So Gimli can do nothing but watch as Haldir bestows another kiss on Legolas, hands working at the hem of Legolas’ tunic, pushing the thin fabric up until it’s stretched tightly across Legolas’ chest, bunched beneath his armpits. His tight stomach and the bottom of his breast is exposed to the cold air: all soft, hairless skin for Haldir to run his hands down. Haldir begins to unlace the leggings around his prize, and Legolas asks, breathless, “Right here?”

“Mortals sleep well in these lands,” Haldir assures him, though clearly, this theory has never been tested on a dwarf. Indeed, Aragorn and Boromir have yet to stir, and they don’t know what they’re missing. “Unless you are particularly loud, they will not wake.” Another kiss stops his explanation, swallowing Legolas’ shivering groans over the fabric being pushed down his thighs. His legs are spread and bent back, held around Haldir’s sides, and when Gimli squints down through the darkness, he can make out the full curve of Legolas’ bare ass. It’s tighter than most dwarves’, but round nonetheless, plush and squished between the furs and the man pinned against it. Haldir moves his mouth from Legolas’ lips to jaw, muttering on, “And if they should wake, the Dúnedain, at least, is free to join us. ...Unless, of course, he has had you enough, though I doubt even a mortal man could tire of such a body.”

Legolas dons a lazy grin that neither denies nor confirms the claim, though it sets Gimli’s head to spinning—he would never have conceived of Aragorn fucking Legolas, though it seems such a thing isn’t so difficult to do, and Legolas already likes Aragorn, as far as Gimli knows. They knew each other before Rivendell, he thinks—and why shouldn’t a man so clearly taken with elves want the most beautiful one of all? Gimli tries to think of all the times the two of them went off together under the guise of discussing plans, and now he has to wonder if they were really talking at all, or if Aragorn was burying himself deep in Legolas’ pliant body and holding a hand over his mouth to stifle the cries. 

Most of what Haldir does between Legolas’ legs, Gimli has no idea. He can only imagine what Legolas looks like below. But he can tell well enough when fingers have entered Legolas. He arches sweetly, his head tossing back and his hair catching along his face, his lithe body performing a sensual dance. His hands stay mostly at his sides, allowing his host free reign, but occasionally, he’ll grip at Haldir’s bicep or fist slim fingers in Haldir’s cloak. Legolas’ face is the most attractive part of all: it contorts with each movement centered around the most sensitive part of his body, his features flushed and dazed. The looks he dons are sinful things that Gimli couldn’t have even dreamed of before this night, and he doubts he’ll ever see them again. Finally, Legolas gasps a strangled, “Please—” and he’s rewarded with a kiss to silence him.

Haldir removes both hands, placing them around Legolas instead, and his body rolls down and into Legolas’. Legolas releases a muffled cry into Haldir’s mouth, swallowed away by the other elf’s busy tongue. Legolas lifts his hands tentatively to Haldir’s shoulders, only to have Haldir’s fingers intertwine with his and pin his hands back to the floor. It’s the move of a lover and not a stranger in the night, but Gimli already knows that Elves are odd creatures. They make love just as bizarrely, slow and steady with rhythmic, rolling thrusts and soft, pretty sounds. There are none of the crude words of dwarves or the sharp, staccato thrusts, and the kisses are never wild, never sloppy, though still passionate, just controlled and strangely artful. Haldir’s hips never falter, and Legolas wraps his legs tight around Haldir’s waist but doesn’t struggle with his arms. He allows himself to be pinned down and taken. He meets each kiss with an equal interest, and when they part, he obediently lowers his chin, allowing Haldir to press their foreheads together. They make a gorgeous picture, though Gimli would never admit it aloud.

It’s a blessing, in a way, to witness this. He feels vaguely like he’s snuck into some grand, intimate ceremony. Yet it’s also a curse, a torture to only lie still and watch, while an elf he’s known far longer than this unknown creature is defiled before his eyes, and worse, in his name. Legolas knows nothing of this man, and yet he opens himself up to be ridden and used based on nothing more than the light compliments any fool could give him. Gimli has probably thought nicer things, if never said them, and he never even fathomed Legolas’ thighs spreading for him. 

But then, he isn’t an elf. Perhaps they’re only so wanton for one another. Or perhaps Legolas really has ridden Aragorn the whole way here—and Boromir too, for all Gimli knows—and all Gimli had to do all along to bring an elf to their knees was speak a few truthful words. 

He still doesn’t know if he could. He’s still a dwarf, Legolas still an elf, and the strained relationship of their people is still what it is. But then he’ll hear Legolas bite back a needy moan and watch his ripe ass be flattened into the furs, and that whittles down Gimli’s resolve. 

It becomes increasingly difficult to watch. He can’t bring himself to shut his eyes, and it would do no good anyway; he’s down wind and can hear all their quiet noises. His trousers seem to get tighter and tighter around the middle, until it’s painful to resist shoving his hand against himself or rolling to slam his hips into the floor. But he doesn’t move. He can’t risk them stopping or damaging his pride. 

It only gets worse. Haldir stops suddenly, and he lifts up, his cock slipping free. Held on all fours, Gimli can see it all, and he finds himself both shocked and envious at the sheer size of his host. Legolas’ own cock is revealed, thinner and only slightly smaller but still of impressive length, a pale pink with golden hairs around the base. Of course it would be _pretty_ , like all of him, though it doesn’t sport the thick, gnarled veins of dwarves. Before Gimli’s done eyeing it, Haldir has pushed down Legolas’ thighs, taken his hips, and gently turned him around. Legolas is rolled onto his stomach, then pulled up to all fours. His cock and tight, pink balls hang freely between his legs, and his hair spills down over his shoulders, hiding parts of his face, at least until Haldir sweeps it all to the other side, giving himself more room on Legolas’ neck to kiss. He flattens overtop of Legolas, wrapping one arm tight around Legolas’ trim middle. Haldir must be slipping back inside, because Legolas bites his lip and stifles a mewl, tilting his head back onto his lover’s shoulder.

In a heartbeat, they’re at it again. Haldir sets the same pace as before, only now Gimli can see every thrust ricochet through Legolas’ entire body. Legolas’ cock swings forward each time, only to fall back again, untouched. Haldir makes no effort to hold it, instead using one hand to keep himself up and the other to pet Legolas’ breast, toying with his rosy nipples. Haldir’s mouth opens along Legolas’ neck and shoulder, painting them in kisses and small bites, while Legolas turns back to try and kiss him in return. 

It’s still graceful, but something about this hits Gimli harder than before; Haldir is fucking Legolas like an _animal_. He’s mounted a prince and drives that gorgeous beast forward with an endless array of thrusts that fill Legolas deeply enough to make him gasp and try to bite away moans. Into Legolas’ pointed ear, Haldir growls, “What a beautiful princeling you are.” Legolas smiles, his face falling away to wash over in a blush and a sea of silvery hair. Haldir takes a firm grip of Legolas’ plush hips, fingers digging in to leave reddened grooves, and pounds inside all the harder.

It takes an absurdly long time for them to finish. Each second it delays makes Gimli’s life miserable, though he knows he wouldn’t turn away if he could. He tells himself it’s because seeing an elf debauched would get any dwarf hard, but he knows it’s because it’s _Legolas_ , beautiful in so many more ways than this. 

Legolas is the first to finish. Without being touched, his cock suddenly stiffens, and Legolas arches back while it spurts a jet of white seed out onto the furs. Haldir’s hand latches around Legolas’ mouth just in time to stifle the cry, while Haldir’s other hand smoothes down Legolas’ thigh, holding the twitching prince onto his cock. Legolas takes several shots to finish, and Haldir fucks him right through it for several more thrusts. Then Haldir buries his face in Legolas’ shoulder, biting back the sounds of his own release. Gimli can tell by the gasp and the look on Legolas’ face that he’s being filled. A few final grinds later, Haldir straightens out again, slithering away. 

He pulls out of Legolas’ body and gently lays Legolas back down in the makeshift blankets, shuffling his leggings back up but leaving his tunic scrunched where it is. Legolas lets himself be rearranged, lying languid again with a happily grin across his face. Haldir takes a moment to gather himself and breathe, then sweeps his hair over his shoulder and murmurs, “We’ll still have to blindfold the dwarf.”

“Could my mouth pay for that?” Legolas asks. Haldir chuckles, and Gimli prays that it won’t come to that. 

Haldir sighs, “I wish it would.” Then he bends over Legolas to press a soft kiss to Legolas’ forehead, straightening again to fix his robes. Legolas stretches out in Haldir’s absence, looking spent and satiated but just as delectable as ever. He’s still a debilitating temptation. 

There are no more parting words between them. Haldir moves silently back towards the center of the flet and disappears down it without the use of a rope. Legolas watches him go, pausing to flex tired arms and legs. 

Lying on his stomach, Legolas turns his face towards Gimli. For the first time, he looks directly at Gimli’s face, and for one horrifying moment, their eyes meet. Gimli’s have opened wide without him realizing it, and there’s nothing he can do to deny it. He doesn’t know whether to splutter an apology or hiss over the lewdness of elves.

Legolas has the audacity to wink. Then he shifts to turn his head to the other side, facing the backs of Aragorn and Boromir, who’ve missed the whole show. Gimli’s paralyzed.

Then he rolls swiftly to his other side to deal with his problem, cursing the trickery of elves inside his own guilty mind and picturing a fully naked, sweaty Legolas getting ploughed into the dirt for a good, hard, _proper_ fuck.


End file.
